Tonight, the veil between the worlds is thin
and is as sheer as gossamer. To touch
its fabric is to let the shadows in,
and find one's means of light simply a crutch

that guides a mere footstep or two beyond
the circle we imagine with our eyes,
a stick with which we try to sound the pond
and find no bottom. There is no disguise

this night to turn our demons from the door,
nor simple ruse to hide behind in fear;
and all our gadgets, tools and such are poor
defense against what truths we would make clear.

On Hallows' Eve we each get what we ask;
for some, reward is just another task.

30 OCT 2005

a remembrance

The flames lick against the side of a rusted drum;
Something rustles behind the apple trees,
And a dog runs barking into the lowering dark,
Joyously fierce as its sound echoes against
The walnut stand along the creek.
I flick a cigarette ash into the diesel stained air
And suppress a shiver from the night -
Another frost settling down on this October twilight.

A lamp inside the storm plastic window by the door
Glows incandescent warm and inviting;
I can hear the soft murmur of the evening news
As it rises and falls against the whisper of the furnace.
In the windbreak of the shed I watch the fire
Flash and caress the falling blackness,
Feel its heat flicker against my face in patterns
Of Hallowe'en orange and ebony.

The whine of the all-night combines reaches out
Across the half-barren land, exciting the young puppies
With its strange roar and threshing; while the Harvest moon
Bathes the rooftops with its slowing rising amber.
What dreams have found their way across this silent sky
To slip unnoticed into the great horizon of grain?
My shadow, cast against the peeled and graying barn
Rocks back and forth in quiet contemplation.

I lost my childhood on this spot, this faded hill of green,
And buried it among the weeds that grow unchecked
While my endless struggle wanes and wretches,
Shouting pleas to ancient timbers; when it wakes
Will I remember, once or twice more, the grasping cold
Ground and fight, desperate, its bitter memory?
Or will I turn, again, away, and looking back, forget
My lonely cries of summer tossed against this wind?

19 OCT 1997

In January 1974 I turned nine years old. A week earlier for Christmas I received two albums that in retrospect both changed my life, and affected my musical course forever:

I don't know which one influenced me more. Certainly, it seemed a greater challenge at the time to be able to sing like Elvis. So I learned how. And the variety of songs on the Elvis record (from Mess o' the Blues to Devil in Disguise to Just Tell Her Jim Said Hello ruined me as far as focus in a single genre was concerned). But there's always been something about Johnny Cash that has resonated with me --- particularly as I got beyond this album and delved into his earlier material with the Tennessee Two. Because Johnny Cash wrote his own songs. Elvis didn't do that too much. Elvis also, so far as my nine year old mind could tell, wasn't much of an outlaw (at least, at the time this collection was put together). Cash, on the other hand, simply oozed smart-aleck loner with an attitude problem, which fit me to a T. As a result, the first songs I wrote (probably two or three months after getting these two albums and playing them to death) sounded much more like Johnny Cash than Elvis Presley.

Balancing my inner Elvis against my inner Johnny --- now, if that's not what Leon Russell was talking about in his song "Tightrope" I'm not sure I know anything at all ... LOL.

I've always been obsessed, thematically, with silence, journeys, and the contexts in which real "life-changing" epiphanies occur. It seems to me that one of these places is on the road touring (and it seems to be backed up by what I've read of folks who spend a LOT of time on the road). You either figure yourself out, or lose yourself, somewhere out on the interstate.

The title is an acknowledgment of Kris Kristofferson as a motivating force for me as a songwriter. It's a Dylan-like off-the-cuff expression, yet intended as an homage to a type of singer-songwriter that really no longer exists.

In the back of the bus
watching cigarette butts in the ashtray
as the lights from the middle
of nowhere recede in the night
There's a song on radio, softly it's playing,
while some local preacher continues his praying
but forgiveness comes slow
to those who believe they are right

In the back of his mind
thoughts collide with the words that he's forming
as the melody reaches
a sleeping form in the next row
There's a song on radio, maybe he wrote it,
Maybe the next time the gun won't be loaded
but memory serves only those
who believe it is so

In the back of his head
his eyes turn to observe through the window
As the fly-over country he's crossing
slips under the road
There's a song on the radio, sales figures pending,
It's all about paying for years of pretending
but time sure ain't money,
you never get more than you owe

In the back of the guidebook
it mentions a beautiful cavern
As the ice ages ravaged,
it found itself left underground
There's a song on the radio, selling its wonders,
And out in the night there's a brief clap of thunder
But hearing a warning is not much
like heeding its sound

In the back of the bus
with the strings of his guitar still humming
As the slow dawn approaches
and opens a wearying eye
There's a song on the radio, worn out and faded
From one more lost cowboy who thought that he made it
But thoughts are the last thing you need
when you're trying to get by

Stage lights just prove
that you came from the shadows.
They're never a permanent high.

1998

I've always been a fan of reggae, calypso and island music in general; and the songs "Margaritaville" and "Two Pina Coladas" seemed to be missing what I've always seen as a crucial element in the description of relationship recovery: that madness, or craziness, that seems to engulf you on both the way in and way out, particularly where a protracted separation is required both medically and legally. A number of my songs touch on this factor in one way or another, with the ultimate purpose of finding something to laugh about in the situation as the best therapy.

I'll tell you that I almost lost it
once or twice but now I'm doing fine.
There may have been an incident that put me down
somewhere along the line.
I've been held back, and I've lost track,
it got to be too much and I got lazy;
they tell me parts don't make the whole, but
no one's ever really just half crazy

I'll tell you I was loco over you
but now I've come back to my sense.
Still, any man who's studied Freud will tell you
there's no middle of the fence;
and I'll admit there's quite a bit of time
where what I did is kinda hazy
I'm no exception to the rule, 'cause
no one's ever really just half crazy

You told me that I'd done things wrong,
that I'd forgotten how to talk to you;
and furthermore, you'd gotten sore
that I could never give you what you're due.
That may be so, but I don't know,
the right and wrong of it still kinda phase me ---
seems like we're two sides of the same mind:
no one's ever really just half crazy

You acted like you didn't want
the things I did because they were insane,
and made me question who I was and every thought
that came into my brain.
I've been a wreck, in retrospect
you really should have known you couldn't save me;
but knowing's just one piece of mind and
no one's ever really just half crazy

1997

I love old songs, and I love mixing it up and keeping 'em guessing.

For that, I blame Lawrence Welk.

Some jazz cats look down on Welk's ensemble (compared to Goodman, Ellington or Kenton it was a SWEET band), and the singers WERE pretty square. But it was the only TV show that zoomed in on the trombone player. It was the "Elvis movie" of TV - inspiration to a young instrumentalist. The mention of the clarinet anywhere else results in raised eyebrows and looks of shame. And they did tribute shows - Irving Berlin, marches of the world, and so on. I blame Lawrence Welk for giving me to Cole Porter right after I finished devouring Buck Owens on "Hee Haw." And Willie Nelson's doing some of those songs now, so I'm not alone in this. Country music is built upon American song history, on "Down in the Valley" and "Sweet Betsy from Pike". These are songs that New Country doesn't know about. It's a different "country" altogether. American music from Scott Joplin to Jimmie Rodgers to Fats Waller, from Lefty Frizzell to Woody Guthrie to Burl Ives, from Helen Forrest to the Andrews Sisters, from the Ink Spots and Mills Brothers.

I could go on and on. I blame Lawrence Welk for that, too.

It means that a barbershop arrangement of "In-a-Gadda-Da-Vida" or a high lonesome rendition of "Smells Like Teen Spirit" isn't out of the question. I blame Lawrence Welk for showing that any song could be included in your repertoire, and that people will dance.

And I enjoy what I'm doing. I blame Myron Floren for that.

He ALWAYS looked like he was having a blast. And that's what I wanted from the start. I love to entertain.

And I love America, where it is all possible, even for a son of immigrants (and aren't we all?).

For that, most of all, I blame Lawrence Welk.

Each historical age is determined by the predominant societal position given to the individuals, groups, nations or empires that can produce or have the resources to acquire whatever substance that age equates to its varied definitions of power. The Bronze Age - whoever could make the most bronze weapons and tools was the predominant culture; The Iron Age - same scenario, different metal. Once societies ran out of harder or more workable metals, they had to pause and re-evaluate their priorities. As a result, we had the Dark Ages - whoever could keep the most people in the dark about their own potential and thereby utilize the brawn of the world without the cumbersome benefit of its brain; the Industrial Age - the period during which those who appeared to be the most industrious were valued, when how much you had really first became more important that what it was you had so much of; the Computer Age - that period of time after we figured out we could get someone else to do the thinking for us, and ending just before the period of time when we began to realize we couldn't tell the difference; and finally, we are in the midst of what some are calling the Information Age. Of course, because there are so many of us in this world now, and each of us more or less autonomously by consensus creates, borrows, buys, steals, inherits, creates, is allowed, is deluded into, or avoids their own separate, unique and individual opinion on the subject, whether we are at the beginning, in the middle, or nearing the definite conclusion of the information age is highly subjective.

My belief is that we are near the end of the Information Age; and that means that a new age is on the imminent horizon. I will outline my reasons for this belief, both in its ceasing to exist and clearly waiting to exist aspects, in a while. For now, let me just skip forward to my conclusion: The next age we are about to enter is the Wisdom Age, and unless we start thinking about gathering some of it together now, you and I and a lot of people on this planet are going to be on the bottom of the food chain, socially speaking.

The first question I would put forward to anyone I encountered in this new age would not be, "Do you speak MY language, stranger," but rather, "Can you sing in your OWN (language)?"

At the conclusion of my initial interrogative statement I would commence to demonstrate a song of my own devising, in my own language. If there was no reply in kind, then that person would be required to locate someone of his own kind who could in fact sing a few bars. If that individual was willing to teach the first "stranger" something of the way of singing, then improvement of that culture could continue. Of course, there would be attempts, in the beginning of the age, where some would try to get others to sing on their behalf (which would of course give credibility to the singer and only by association improve the standing of the employer in some respects, and lower their believability in other respects), or would learn, by rote, someone else's songs and try to bluff their way through (of course, a true singer would know that the song was not of the singer's creation, and would know something was false in the communication). But this would rapidly prove the exception.

After the first exchange of songs in each of the singer's native languages, translation of ideas and other information could ensue. Without a meeting of equals, an individual or group, no matter how extensive or impressive or overwhelming their other assets, had no basis for transacting communication and no wise way of achieving that objective. Unless two individuals can understand, through that shared experience of each other's inner being that singing your own song weaves into reality, what really is important to the other person, there is no fair, equitable, honest, open, profitable or moral grounds for business, trade, marriage, treaty, alliance, division, disagreement, censorship, condemnation, ridicule, friendship, religion or warfare - in short, none of these partnership activities can occur. If you want any of those things but can not get your songs in order, you just have to wait. You're obviously not ready for whatever it is you think you want. So you have time to work on your song and get it together.

Maybe this will help put things into a bit of perspective:

Imagine walking down the sidewalk on an early spring morning, a light mist still hanging in the air in the coolness of the day. You could be in a metropolitan area, or out in the middle of the desert (of course, the construction and very nature of your sidewalk will vary depending on that first choice). There could be thousands of other people involved in this selfsame activity, or you could be the only one. For the sake of this illustration, imagine yourself and at least one other person who will become aware of your presence at about the same time you gain awareness of them.

Now imagine that instead of having a set of headphones on your head that is fed from Sony Walkman, you are accompanied in the open air by a group of between two and six musicians, all accompanying themselves using whatever acoustic (that is, non-electrically powered) instruments, devices, accessories, tools best describe and reproduce the music that describes you. This may take a while to imagine, and of course, at different times, the group may be composed of different and perhaps interchangeable individuals and/or attachments. Chances are you'll have several varying groups, but at least one or two. Now imagine the body of work that they might perform. It might be songs from the radio, ambient sounds, religious hymns, classical works, etc., etc. At least one of the songs must be an original work (exactly how original is always going to be a problem, it always has been, but I think the nature of the problem will probably change in the future), the performance of which you take an active part whenever it comes into rotation, or by request, whichever comes first. Since this discourse will get confusing unless we somehow divide its parts into recognizable segments, let's call this first imaginary product in the course of this analogy "The Soundtrack of Your Life." Don't worry if you think you might have left something out - there's going to be ample opportunity in the future to expand your repertoire.

or Free Your Mind and Your Chops Will Follow:

EVERYTHING is a matter of personal taste. Nobody gets "great ears" without playing badly with their betters (betters who are willing to accept a lot of bad notes, ideas or tangents as the price to be paid for developing new talent).

If somebody sells a lot of records, that helps everybody else (to some degree). That means people are interested in adding music to the soundtrack of their lives. And you can't change the way people think about or listen to music if they're not listening to or thinking about it to begin with.

What were the "classics" when they were written? Weren't they all experimental to some extent? The appeal of music is that it contains universal themes that are at their heart, extremely and uniquely personal experiences.

What makes a song a classic is that people connect to it and relate it to their own experience. And that takes time and not much else. But remember, before classical music was "classical", ol' J.S. Bach was just improvising on the organ (to feed his dozen odd children). Mozart was writing what came into his head. They made it up as they went along.

Minds are like parachutes - they only function when open. There's much to be learned from absorbing the "classics," but you've got to eventually squeeze the sponge - and all the water might not end up in the sink.

The quality of the instrument you're holding doesn't make a damn bit of difference. It's the quality of the instrument that YOU are that does. Each note tells a story, so be careful not to talk too much - the more you know, the more choices you have, the more challenging your role. When you set standards rather than just playing them, then you're great - and it doesn't matter how many years you've been on the road, or how many "name" acts you've played with.

Johnny Cash said that Nashville's had a hard time figuring how to sell country to New Yorkers with boots. It's a national advertising demographic thing now.

Well, country ought to be personal and interactive. Nobody in new country makes you think of Marty, Hank or Lefty - not because they weren't influential, but because real country singing requires life outside a studio, not video appeal. But Nashville, Inc. doesn't want that - it's too risky. Why? Well, new country radio is designed to offend no one. Sure, it's caricature, apology or hip idiom, but nobody laughs at themselves anymore. Politically correct? Maybe, but there's a lot of cutesy girls and dimpled boys, and nobody's hands are getting dirty working. It doesn't reflect reality. God didn't make these honkytonk angels, unless he's writing the graffiti in the mens' room.

Old country doesn't get on radio because "there's no money in nostalgia", but there is quite a bundle in fantasy. Nobody's ever mad or disgusted in New Country, where a smile and great hair prove your heart is broken. It's a product for a disposable society, leaving no impressions, taking no stand and requiring no listener commitment.

Real Country is like whiskey - it improves with age. A new country song doesn't need born-on dating. You know when it goes bad. Praise of mediocrity devalues genius, which is a long-term thing. Singers who survive their twenties, who resist being groomed and shrink-wrapped, and who prefer giving unique memories to each two-bit roadhouse rather than an intimate global satellite experience from Central Park.

Buddy Holly told Nashville, Inc. "My way, or I'm leaving. I'd rather shovel shit in Lubbock."

Well, until there's a Buddy in New Country, you'll just have to pretend that Hank Sr. would have been "discovered" on Star Search.

Baby's got a hole in her shoe
Tells me she's not sure what to do
All her watercolors have turned to blue
Said she wanted a choice, but now there's nothing left to choose
Tells me that her well's about to run dry
Got no more tears left her to cry

Baby's got a lot on her mind
Tells me she's not sure just what she'll find
All her fortune tellers have been found blind
Says I know wanted change, but wasn't sure what kind
Tells me she just wants to be free
Then picks up the chains that bind her, and throws me the key
saying

I don't need no angels to show me the light
Yesterday's angel is still burning bright
Don't try to save me, and I think I'll be all right
Just leave your wings outside my door tonight

Baby's got a lock on her soul
Tells me she don't want to lose control
All her convicted lovers have been paroled
Said she gave herself to the night, didn't know it'd be so cold
Tells me her bridges are burned to the ground
Got no more heartache to pass around

Baby's got a hole in her heart
Tells me she just wants to make a new start
All her horses left her with a broken cart
Said she wanted to know it all, now it hurts to be so smart
Tells me she just wants to let go
Then picks up the chains that bind her, throws the key to the floor
saying

I don't need no angels to show me the light
Yesterday's angel is still burning bright
Don't try to save me, and I think I'll be all right
Just leave your wings outside my door tonight...

And so I did.

1991

an amphigory

She flung away rapscallion locks,
two dozen rare embroidered socks
of carded wool from royal flocks
as priceless as the chicken pox
for separating poofs from jocks
and as her jaw was full of rocks
said, "if good fortune comes, and knocks,
and would remove life's pains and shocks,
please let it know the privvy crocks
are in sore need of dumping."

Alack a-day, the world will spin
and at dawn start up once again;
and win or lose and come what may
you laugh or sing alack a-day

To which her stolid beau replied,
"You've grace and charm, that's undenied,
but some things are beneath my pride,"
and further, as if an aside,
he whispered, soft, and slow, and snide,
"and furthermore, this eventide
I plan to stage a suicide
that will slow, if not stop, the ride,
which others methods, failed when tried,
have with good conscience been applied
so much that it's hard to decide
which way the wind is jumping."

Alack a-day, the wheels will roll
from dusk until the dawn patrol;
you live and learn enough to say
c'est la vie or alack a-day

18 OCT 2005

What is belief except a means to reach
beyond the limits safe within our grasp
to learn from the unknown what it may teach?
If in that fertile darkness, courage fails,
as well as our illusions of defense,
what is there but belief until night pales?

Can faith alone provide, as some suppose,
sufficient armor against what we fear:
a deep pervading loneliness that grows
with every hour, behind our cheerful smiles;
a nagging doubt that we are each alone;
that substance fails, and there are merely styles?

It is belief that is our mooring rock:
the tenets that we hold as true and sure,
that mark us individuals, and shock
those who either grasp at fashion's whims,
or sip from here or there, like butterflies;
the book of life we choose to read, not skim.

But separate belief from life, and it becomes
a rigid set of chains that bind the soul,
that does not fuel, but instead starts to numb
the senses to the underlying truth:
that what we see is only a small part,
akin to how old age is known to youth:

A lantern in the dark, but not the light;
a drop of canteen water, not the spring;
a packet of dry crackers, but not grain;
a piece, not very much, of everything.

18 OCT 2005

The moon is swollen full tonight,
her belly stretched out in the light;
that glow ascribed to pregnant maids
reflects down through the tall pines' shade
and with a wash of purple blue
includes the woods' edge in my view.

There in the timid shadows where
the evening breeze parts leaves like hair
a scent of cedar, oak and gum
plays softly as a guitar strummed
against the senses, soft and low,
as limbs brush gently to and fro.

Against the lunar silhouettes
played out along the low slung fence
the moonlight dances, shy and meek,
as if it would, should someone speak,
retreat back to the forest wall
and act as if not there at all.

16 OCT 2005

in alcaics

In seeking out the allness of everything
(a journey full of critical posturing
that makes our baggage less intrusive)
listening silently guides each footfall.

Each minute's chat, each garrulous dialogue,
that nervous banter drowning the emptiness
of what the world leaves as unspoken,
cleverly misdirects those who search for

the secret, sacred whispering undertone
that proves a pulse still dripping with energy,
of beyond ancient time and birthing:
constantly creating all of being.

15 OCT 2005

an alba

What light may break through the scrub trees
that line the well-groomed yard at dawn
is thin and pale, its weight degrees
less than it when it lingers on

the lower depths, the southern end,
below the Orleans waterline;
there it hangs and drips with fat
and heavy water in the pines

and live oaks. Yet it brings the day
on the same time clock. Newton claimed
that mass does not affect the way
a thing responds; its strength is tamed

by gravity, that evens out
the superficial and the deep.
I, though, with Einstein, have my doubts,
while watching as new sunsets creep,

some like a lion, others meek,
with peacock's plumes, or subtle shades;
some like a corpse, that dares not speak;
a few like boisterous parades.

What insights in an hour's time
the rare observer gains, are lost
once that same sun completes its climb
and burns away both death, and frost.

14 OCT 2005

an ae freilighe

The gods may grant petitions
to endless years of prayer;
not lay too strict conditions;
in that granting, be fair;

but it is not sedition
to think them often cruel,
seeing naught but perdition
in their lessons and schools.

Think of it as remission,
when one's blessings, like disease,
or shadows of suspicion,
do not fulfill, but tease.

13 OCT 2005

If you asked a Buddhist monk
who fled the monastery
as it burned down to the ground

if he would miss it very
much, I think he might reply

"Some mornings, in the winter,
purple clouds would split the sky
into bright colored splinters."

10 OCT 2005

A single shelf sits untouched by the rubble,
its contents unmolested by the storm;
while mold grows from the walls like razor stubble,
and walls and ceilings crumble beyond form.

Below, the room is nothing but destruction,
appliances and desks upturned and smashed,
displaced and wretched by the flood water's suction,
strewn through the house and turned to worthless trash.

Along the ceiling molding where it crested,
a gray mud line demarks the surge's path;
yet that shelf seems pristine, and calm and rested,
quite unaffected by Katrina's bath.

On that shelf? Kali and Shiva, destroyers,
look out into the chaos of the foyer.

08 OCT 2005

an acrostic

H elpless in the laughing face of elemental change
U nloosed as a pointed reminder that we each exist,
R eally, at the mercy of the Mother's loving hands, the
R ight extending blessing, while the left removes our veiled
I llusions of reality, when humans pause and
C ontemplate their permanence, beyond wild theories
A nd religious dogma, it really comes to this:
N othing last forever except
E nergy, which we can only borrow for a while.

K ept too long, without knowledge of its purpose, it
A trophies, or seeks to be released; we see this shift as
T rauma, without sensing the balance that is
R ighted by a ruthlessness that makes our lives seem
I nconsequential, even meaningless, when compared to
N ature's awesome bent for self-renewal
A nd will for preservation of the whole.

09 OCT 2005

The telephone is ringing;
The assessor's on the line.
He wants to avoid meeting us,
and asks us if that's fine.

In essence, he wants us to lie
and say his job is done;
He's three hours from New Orleans
and the drive in is not fun.

Of course, we need to meet him,
to settle our affairs;
some closure, so we can pretend our
mortgage holder cares.

Official now, the verdict:
what we had is wholly gone,
and if we're lucky we may get
nothing to start upon

instead of owing thirty grand
for something we can't use:
a toxic spot of swampland
and a use for rubber shoes.

The telephone's stopped ringing;
all those promising some aid
are pondering our paperwork
in bureaucrat charade.

We found some friends who made it out,
like us, they've lost it all;
but now we've got each other
when there's no one else to call.

Some said they'd help, and didn't,
others took us by surprise;
you find out who your friends are
in such times, and realize

of course, there is some clarity
to be gained from all this:
the next time we're on fire who we
can count on not to piss.

06 OCT 2005

Believe it ... poetry can heal wounds;
of course, an awkward, ill-set bone
will sometimes need to be re-cracked,
and soft illusions that so gently cradle us
to bind the flesh beneath, must go.

And often, language is so poor
a conduit for what needs said
that poetry, to remain true,
must eschew words and simply ape,
pretending to be civilized.

In drunken rages, curses slurred
and spewed into a sewer's maw,
a poet finds epiphany;
and if not driven to reveal
that underbelly, often pawns

off lesser dreck to pass as art,
or spends their time in all-night shops,
dissecting life with coffeespoons.
Let he who is well understood
explain such mincing words. Pray tell:

What inner demons exorcised
conduct themselves with grace and charm?
The world needs screaming, now and then,
and herds of pigs snorting, pell-mell,
beyond decency's cliff.

04 OCT 2005

for Jim Morrison

Come, dig the grave, but not too deep;
the eighties were a shallow time.
We spent a decade just to learn
how to maintain appearance's sake
and delve with questions, off-the-cuff,
in cocktail conversation bluffs.

Come, dig the grave, the shovel's mouth
will gouge the earth enough to serve
as depth-gauge for the swollen corpse;
besides, the scavengers we bred
in boredom need not work too hard
to find in us their daily bread.

Come, dig the grave; it's only death
that by necessity is born
and like a cancer spreads throughout
the tender tissue we have formed
to shield us from the sunlight's glare
and make believe there's nothing there.

Come, work the soil and lay the sod;
the garden must be fed anew
lest what fruit has escaped the rod
be left to rot by morning's dew.
What harvest plenty still remains
is just enough to clog the drains.

Come, dig the grave, but not too deep,
lest toil and sweat destroy our youth.
Let future generations weep
that they've no gravestone for the truth.
Besides, it's almost happy hour ---
we should arrive by our own power.

03 OCT 2005

When ground to standstill, mired, besmirched,
their cog-end mesh begun to rust,
the wheels of progress can but lurch.
Their motion barely moves the dust;

and each gear's inch assaults the ear
with tortured squeaks and sudden stalls.
Behind all effort lies the fear
of a collapse. Beyond the walls

that seem now solid, storm clouds build,
and in their grey depths store the seeds
of new despair, and drain the will
that seeks out hope, and guarantees.

The great machine we all assume
needs only maintenance to sustain
prosperity --- is it now doomed,
its circuits blown under the strain

of finding crisis hidden where
in some illusion, we once thought
ourselves immune, and without care
protected by the things we bought?

The factory that once supplied
in part and parcel, our defense,
lies now in ruin, paralyzed,
struck dumb by an experience.

03 OCT 2005